


La Petite Mort

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [9]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s05e04 Chapter 56, F/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11453226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: Election Day. Their future hangs in the balance.Honesty isn’t what she’s looking for right now. A perfectly crafted lie would suit the cloak-and-dagger mystique of this day just as well.





	La Petite Mort

The click of the lighter echoes through the Oval. Smoke desecrates this reputable office as Francis brings the cigarette to his mouth and takes a drag. 

He offers it to her in silence. 

She accepts. It’s communal, not celebratory. She thinks faintly of poisoned communion wine, acts of faith, blind trust. Mutually assured destruction. 

“It’s all or nothing.” She says, reaching across the desk for the ash tray. 

“I’m fully aware. And committed.” 

She taps out the ashes, her gaze focused on the fire eating away at the cigarette. The slow burn is recognized deep in her soul. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire; and they’ve been chasing each other through the haze for months. It all circles back around to this room, this noble and prestigious office. 

“Is this all we have left?” She asks. 

Francis turns from the window, a frown curling his brow. “What do you mean? All we have left?” 

“Last night, you asked me if we were together. We are - as nominees.” 

“Claire, there’s no room for doubt here-”

“I have no doubts whatsoever about the election.” She says. She puts the cigarette briefly to her mouth, sipping nicotine. 

He approaches her, his hands hiding their predatory clutch in his pockets. 

She leans against the desk, and allows him to trap her between the solid wood and his body. 

“What do you want me to say?” He murmurs, “That despite our circumstances, I love you more than anything? More than this office, the power of the presidency? More than life itself? You already know I do.”  

“Romanticism nauseates me.” 

He chuckles, and takes the cigarette from between her lips. Flipping it around, he takes a drag. 

“What about Tom? He seems like a romantic guy.” 

“I’m not talking about Tom. I’m talking about us.” 

“The two are intricately connected.” 

“It’s about sex.” 

“Is it?” 

“Mmm.” 

She snatches the cigarette back. Taking a breath, she tilts her head back and blows a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. If the smoke detectors go off, it’ll be just another line crossed. It’s fitting; no other rule has applied to them today, so why should this one? 

“Remember that night you took me out onto the balcony?” She asks, “You showed me the protesters, and told me they needed my guidance.” 

“How could I forget?” 

“You wanted to kiss me.” 

“As I recall, you were the one making suggestions. I seem to also remember that Tom was waiting for you.”

“That’s his job - to wait for me.” 

Claire offers him the cigarette. 

Francis regards her with a narrowed gaze. He doesn’t believe her; and why should he? They’ve been walking a parallel line, one which hardly intersects, since the day she walked out of the White House announcing she was leaving him. This union they have now is one of necessity, and mutual gain. Honesty is a policy that was left in the Texas dust. 

Honesty isn’t what she’s looking for right now. A perfectly crafted lie would suit the cloak-and-dagger mystique of this day just as well. 

“We’re walking a dangerous path.” She says, “It’s … exhilarating, don’t you think?”

He leans closer, his hands creeping out of his trouser pockets to grip the desk on either side of her hips. His gaze is dark, the fiery lick of desire surging toward the surface - she can see it in the rhythmic swell of his pupils.  

He takes the cigarette from her, and reaches around her to snuff it out in the tray. 

“I wasn’t done with that.” 

Ignoring her remark, he takes her face between his hands. His thumb brushes against her lower lip, first a sensual glide and then a brusque push. She swallows back a whimper as it forces it’s way past her lips and up against the sharp edges of her teeth. She quivers within as he presses closer, his knee working between hers and pinning her to the desk. His gaze scorches her; she feels herself consumed in it, all the tiny, fleeting attachments of herself stripped away until she’s bare ivory and a drumming heart of ambitions and desires. The throbbing pulse of desire is hidden there behind her pelvis, under the weight of his hips. 

Leaning forward, he brushes his mouth against the corner of hers.  Hardly a kiss, but a taste. 

He reaches down to find the hem of her skirt. The fabric is taut around her thighs, giving her little room to spread them in invitation, but his hand finds it’s way underneath. The brush of his fingertips along her inner thigh disperses heat and tiny shockwaves of aberrant need through her middle. 

Closing her eyes, she pulls the skirt up over her thighs, and opens her legs wider. Her breath is stuck in the back of her throat, her heartbeat ricocheting through her head as his fingers drag between her legs. The light pressure sends need rippling through her, hot and quicksilver. 

She drags in a shuddering breath, teeth clamping around his thumb. 

His fingers wiggle beneath the bunched edge of her skirt to hook around the elastic of her panties. She feels the thin lace slipping away, and doesn’t protest. He takes them down her knees, and releases them. They slip down her calves to her ankles, resting there with dangerous intent. 

Their motions cease. Gazes, hazy with need but aware, connect. 

His thumb is in her mouth, preventing her from speaking, but they don’t need to verbalize what they’re both thinking. 

_ Someone could walk in at any moment.  _

She closes her lips around his knuckle, applying delicate pressure. Her eyes slide shut. Sensation and taste take over in the darkness behind her eyelids. She’s acutely aware of the tremble going through him, and into her - a pulsating, sparking feedback loop of suppressed desires and fostered aggression. 

His thumb wiggles free, and slides wet and firm down her lower lip and chin. He takes hold, forcing her head down. Knowing it’s what he wants, she opens her eyes to watch. 

His fingertips creep down to touch the inside of her knee, urging her legs apart. 

Exposure makes her flush with heat. It courses down her body in waves, impacting hard between her legs.  She can feel the pulse of it, the ache turning from mild to unbearable. 

His touch wanders along her thigh, a tortuous, undulating journey that sends impatient anticipation crashing through her chest. She pins her lips over a groan - unwilling, perhaps unable - to give him the satisfaction. 

He reaches the top of her thigh, and stops. 

The next few seconds are loaded and bursting - his control pushing back against her need. This eternal struggle that they’re locked in is reduced down to one base, predictable need. 

His fingers press between her legs with no further prelude. A gasp plows from the back of her throat, echoing loud and raspy in the utter silence of the Oval. Her eyes spring open, meeting Francis’ as his fingers penetrate her brazenly. She’s wet, throbbing; his touch meets no resistance but the aroused clench of muscle. 

His smile is tilted, devilish. 

“My God, Claire …”

She looks away, her face turning hot at the lilt of amusement in his voice. Part of her wants him to capitalize on her mortification and throw her face-down on this desk. The other half wants to push him to his knees and usurp the authority of this office. 

His breath spills hot down her neck as he pumps his fingers into her, feeding the frenzy building to a fever-pitch deep in her belly. Every penetration leaves her panting, her body aching and clamping around the idea of pleasure. She can feel herself gushing, her body tripping along the edge of orgasm. She presses her eyes shut, focusing on the ebb and flow deep in her belly, straining to let it sweep her away. He has her close, so close. 

A sharp, painful gasp rips from her throat. 

Francis withdraws his hand in a sudden act of cruelty. 

The pleasure skids to a halt inside her; she’s tingling mildly still, but aching more than anything else. 

She blinks, trying to cut through the disorientation of near orgasm to glare at him. 

Francis ignores her scathing gaze as he leans in to nudge a kiss against her jaw. She tilts her head back as his warm kisses travel along the curve of her cheek, and nestle just below her ear. His hands curl around her hips, lifting her from the edge of the desk. 

“Sit down.” He whispers, his voice low and scraping against her aching parts. 

He pulls back, and she raises her eyes to inquire. 

He tilts his head toward his black, leather chair. The President’s chair. 

He sweeps a hand toward the seat, murmuring, “Madame Vice President.” 

A shiver runs through her, the journey of reckless desire. 

Sinking to the plush leather, she grasps the arms of the chair, and slides down until her hips are at the edge. The leather clings cool and smooth against her bare skin; she can feel the heat drizzling from her to dampen the expensive material. 

Francis kneels down in front of her. His hand catches at the front of his jacket, sliding the button free. He bends forward to kiss her knee. His mouth touches her at the same moment the silk of his tie brushes her calf. Furtive pleasure ripples along her nerve-endings, nudging awake the drifting orgasm blossoming between her legs. 

She swallows thickly, giving up some measure of her dignity to beg. “Hurry.” 

His gaze blazes up her bare, creamy thighs, pausing where she’s pink and wet and swollen, before looking up to flay her the knife’s edge of desire in his eyes. 

She bites her lip against the quiver building inside her. 

His mouth follows the tingling path of his eyes all the way up her inner thigh, leaving behind a wet trail of lingering, smoldering kisses. When he reaches the join of her crotch, he pauses. His breath spills like a humid, August breeze - hot, torrid, and the taste of a storm - over her aching clit. 

“Jesus, Francis…” 

She reaches for his hair, tilting her hips toward the promise of his mouth. 

“Don’t stop.” 

Anticipation curls tight in her belly, but she’s already halfway into bliss. 

The wet, velvet stroke of his tongue tasting the arousal glazing her labia is but a fraction of the satisfaction surging through her. 

Sex has never been the primary attraction between them; it’s the power - but on a day like today, the two can intersect and collide. A perfect storm. She gladly mistakes the power and scheming - the winning - for arousal. 

And Francis - maybe he imagines he’s taking away but another piece of her. Securing her position below him before they take office. After today, she’ll be but a step away from him; and both of them know how those positions can turn on a dime. 

Let him imagine. 

She’s  _ enjoying  _ this. His tongue is swirling softly against her, his mouth taking the tender folds on his mouth, sucking a tremble and moan from her. He increases the pressure, until there’s a pang of pain in between the pulse of pleasure. 

She arches against the leather, clapping a hand over her mouth to silence the building cry of stampeding pleasure.

He releases her - only to employ another devastating touch.  

She trembles in the interim, brief seconds of shaking anticipation and aching bliss. 

He breathes hot against her, letting her feel the heady need rushing from his chest. Then the tip of his tongue snakes forward. 

A whine wrings itself free of her throat, and she squeezes her eyes tight against the revolution of pleasure humming and spiraling through her belly. 

His tongue drags along her gushing slit, up and down for long, torturous moments. When he finally stops at her clitoris, he draws a firm circle around the swollen flesh that is, in the same moment, too much and not enough. 

A harsh shudder rolls from deep inside her, and she cries out against the palm of her hand. Her hand flies to his hair, lacing through it, and locking into a fist that holds his mouth captive against her. 

His hands slide up her thighs, and below the bunched hem of her skirt to clamp around the bare flesh of her hips. He drags her closer while thrusting his tongue against her, uttering a low sound of pleasure that vibrates from his tongue and into her clit. 

She inadvertently bites into her palm, but the small shaft of pain that goes through her hand is instantly swallowed by the swell of need pounding through her body. Her breaths come hard through her nostrils, leaving her dizzy, the room tilting with bliss. 

Her head lolls against the back of the chair, and her eyes slide open as his tongue thrills her throbbing clit. Through half-open, hazy eyes, she sees the painting above the fireplace - George Washington gazing down at them with stern disapproval. A smile tugs at her mouth just before it’s twisted into a gasp and moan by the erotic stroke of Francis’ tongue. 

Any thought of this office, the election, or all that hangs in the balance fades away into white noise. Her mind is peacefully blank, wiped clean by the pure, undiluted pleasure sweeping through her. The rhythm of Francis’ tongue marks out the seconds until orgasm, each completed circle leaving her body raging and aching with punishing need. A demand rips through her chest, spilling a low groan against the muzzle of her hand. 

She pushes into his mouth, eager and wild. And he responds with his own grunt of need, his fingers squeezing around her hips so hard she can feel the flesh bruising. 

He takes her apart, finding the smallest thread of need and pulling until she unravels. For her own peace of mind, she thinks that she’s allowing it. She’s lowering her guard for just a minute because after tonight, everything will change. They will either be left with everything, or nothing; but whatever happens, nothing will be the same. And she wants this irresponsibility, this needless destruction, this simple, childish act of rebellion one more time. For this moment, it’s as simple and as complicated as an orgasm; no ulterior motive, no secret - she just wants him to make her come as hard as possible. 

The tide rises inside her. She stiffens, waiting, throbbing, anticipation. 

His tongue rides her clit, pushing that ache higher and higher. 

She falls into it, relief sweeping her chest just before the spasms strike. 

Her eyes slide shut as her body releases, and pleasure floods her every vein and nerve-ending. White pulses at the corners of her vision, the dull explosion of fireworks only she can hear. It surges through her, spasm after spasm. Her body revolts against control, against thought. It crushes her - and she begs to be ruined for only a few seconds longer. 

His tongue follows her through the orgasm, stretching out the moments of bucking, of moaning, of twisting, and whimpering until her body numbs, the pleasure flatlining and clinging to life. 

This sensation is powerful all on it’s own - they don’t need the White House for this. Only, after tonight, she knows neither of them will see it that way. After tonight, he’ll never look at her this way again. 

She slowly comes to as the pleasure bleeds away, leaving behind the wreckage - her body limp and dangling over the chair, her clothes wrinkled and awry, her hair disheveled. 

Francis kneels between her legs, his mouth branding kisses up her thigh. He pauses at her knee, his gaze traveling up to meet hers. 

“I don’t think anyone would imagine that  _ this  _ is what we’d be doing today.” He whispers, his mouth curling in mirth. 

“Neither did I.” 

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t considered it at least once.”  

“ _ Filthy _ .”

“Terrible, I know. The Forefathers would never forgive me for disrespecting this office.” 

“Well, it’s our house now; not theirs.” 

“Yes, and I intend to keep it.” 

He snatches her panties from the floor, and holds them open at her feet.

She hesitates for a moment before putting each foot in. He drags the panties up over her knees, where he lets her take over. 

Gripping the edge of the desk, he pulls himself to his feet with a grunt. Straightening, he smooths his tie back underneath his jacket, and slides the button closed. 

“We have a lot of work to do still.” He says. 

Rising from the chair, Claire wiggles the panties up around her hips, and pulls her skirt back down. The fabric is slightly wrinkled, but not noticeable. 

She glances at the closed doors of the office. They’ve been left alone this long. 

“Do you want me to…?” 

“I’ll celebrate when we win.” 

She takes the remark like a slap in the face. 

As he marches around the desk to the couches, she crosses her arms, searching for a retort.

Sitting down on the couch, he consults his open laptop, and reaches for the glass of whiskey he’d been nursing before they took the smoke break. 

“I would have done it.” She says. 

“I know.” 

“I’m just as committed to this as you are.” 

He doesn’t look up at she strides across the room to stand over him. 

“That wasn’t celebratory, it was-”

“I know.” He repeats, finally lifting his gaze from the laptop, “It’s completely unrelated.” 

“Good. Because I will do whatever it takes to win this election.  _ Whatever _ it takes.” 

She turns away, but not so quickly as to miss the look of admiration in his eyes. 

He rises from the couch, and follows her to the window. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he leans in to press a kiss against the side of her neck. 

She’s tucked away in the high collar of her blouse, and buttoned down in the jacket. If they were anywhere but here, she knew his hands would be on every inch. Not so long ago, they had been. 

She puts a hand to the glass; it’s cool with November chill beneath her fingertips.

“When did it get this big?” She whispers. 

“What do you mean?” 

“It feels like yesterday that we were starting your first Congressional campaign … a minute ago that I was just getting the CWI off the ground.” 

“We’ve survived. And we’re not done yet.” 

“Yes.” 

“Does it frighten you?” 

She slips out of his embrace, and braces her hands against the back of the couch. 

“No. None of this scares me.” 

“Good.” 

She lifts her chin as he comes to stand behind her. 

“There’s no coming back from this.” He says. 

“Oh, I know exactly what we’re about to do.” 

“If we fail, it’s on both of us. I won’t be able to protect you.” 

His statement echoes through her - perhaps honesty between them is not entirely lost. Just last night, he’d raised his voice at her for even considering failure. And now, he warns her of the possibility. 

She glances at the President’s chair. The ghost impression of her body, her pleasure still lingers. She prays it dies there, her dependency on him. Prays that orgasm and relief breathed that final breath of weakness from her bones. 

She turns slowly, taking the brutal truth in his eyes with lifted shoulders. 

“And what a relief that will. For both of us.” 

 

~the end~ 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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